Difficult Rice

Don't get angry. That's what Summer Storm had been told all her life. Do. Not. Get. Angry. When she was a filly it had been easy. She couldn't. It was like a fog was wrapped around her brain. A cloud that filled her thoughts and smothered them under a layer of bleugh. It didn't matter if she burned the hay, boiled the peppers, or didn't wash the rice. It was just bad food. Not that she could say it was bad, because the thoughts got lost in that haze of indifference. The only person in the village that did notice or care didn't just say so. No no. She'd do a full on dissertation on how Summer had completely ruined dinner again, followed by a stage play, followed by interpretive dance. And a song. Always a song.

But then the haze was lifted. The veil drawn back. The meh banished. And the village was happy. She was happy! Giddy! Ecstatic. Overjoyed... really. Until everyone sat down for dinner and she reveiled her hardest work and promptly received a five paragraph essay about how her cooking sucked! And she sat there with a smile on her face. Because while it was okay to get mad, to let the fire out, it wasn't really okay. Because at the end of the day, dinner was burned. Sometimes the kitchen too.

It was enough to make her leave the village entirely. Get all the best herbs and spices and head to the old train station at the bottom of the mountain. "This is the end of the line! The last stop! The final..." the old pony stationmaster rasped before she gave him a long, low, smoldering glare. "Oh! I suppose it's the first step! The start of your journey! The beginning... of the END!" He laughed dramatically, hooves thrust into the air as if he expected lightning to flash dramatically behind him. Falling to his hooves he gave a sheepish chuckle, "Sorry. Couldn't resist." His rheumy eyes looked at the ticket in her mouth. "Heading to Manehattan, eh? Busy city. Kinda flammable. Make sure you don't get angry!"

She'd been doing 'don't get angry' her entire life. It was just a little bit harder now...

One train ride later and she was just another stranger in the Big Apple. Ponies everywhere. Griffins too. Dragons and dog people... cat people... even a few people from home. "Hey, Summer. How's it going? Keeping cool, right?" they'd say with that nervous grin she knew all too well. "Don't get angry!" Because Manehatters were renowned for their even temperament and not brusquely shoving people in the street. Because dragons never got irritable. Because griffons were the pinnacle of manners. But SHE couldn't get angry! Because bad things would happen.

Of course the perfect job for her was in the food services...

"I want the spicy curry ramen with the nectarines and tofu please! And try to get it right this time! Not too spicy but not bland either!"
"I didn't order that. I ordered THAT!" with a broad hoof gesture at the board behind her.
"Could you make it bigger without charging me extra?"
"Here's a tip: get a real job!"
"Make it as hot as your flanks, baby!"

That last one had cost her a place of employment... Fortunately the pony legal system was all tied in knots over applying friendship to potential destruction of private property cases so she got to trot out of that one with her mane intact. But it didn't change anything. Didn't change her. She lived in her horseshoe box sized apartment listening to ponies argue through the walls and try to focus on cooking her own meal before trotting into the bathroom. She'd stare into the mirror at her red and orange mane. Her pale coat. Her bronze scales. Just stare and wish that she had the fog back. Take away the anger. Sure it was okay for her cousins. They could not get angry all the time. They could hold it in. They could keep it together.

And she'd bow her head pretend like she was just washing her face in the sink. Don't get sad either. Smile smile smile, wasn't that what ponies said?

She wound up working the night shift at an all hours neighponese stall. Six seats minimized the potential customer exposure. Most of the customers showed up with their elegant curved horns and almost kirin like grace, ate in silence, thanked her, and left. She appreciated that. And often she'd be able to lean against the counter when the rain fell and hissed on the streets like the oil in the wok and she could almost enter that state of haze. That feeling of not feeling overwhelmed. Of peace.

That was when SHE started showing up.

She wasn't that different from the usuals. Periwinkle coat. Thin. A unicorn who came in and ordered a simple bowl of rice. And she sip the broth and then give a soft 'tch'. It was like pepper in the eye, but don't get mad. Then she came back the next night. And the next. Every night the same rice. Plain. Every night the same 'tch'. Night after night. And every time she walked out into the night, Summer felt her nerves rise. What could she possibly object to? How had she screwed it up?! But don't get angry! Just thank them for coming. Go home. Wash face. Sleep. Cook her own food and try to make it hot enough to strip the paint off the walls! Work. Wait. And like clockwork:

'Tch!'

As the pale unicorn walked away, Summer rose to her hooves. "What is your problem?!" she shouted at the unicorn's back, steam rising around her as her struggled not to let it consume her.

The unicorn looked over her shoulder with a long, apprasing look. And then, to Summer's horror, the mane gave an anemic smile. "Oh, my dear. You surely don't want my opinion. It's quite out of style in Equestria these days."

Summer blinked in bafflement. "I mean what's wrong with my food? You eat the most boring junk I cook. If you don't like it, let me do better!"

The unicorn turned slightly in the drizzle, a dome of magic diverting the rain like an umbrella. "My dear, your food is perfectly adiquate. Quite honestly, it's some of the best that I've found in this city."

"Then why don't you like it?!" Summer asked as she swept a hoof at the counter in front of her. "Every night you say the same thing. 'Tch!' You sound like my auntie!"

The mare looked out into the rainy night. "I don't much like food these days. I used to take my pride it in, and my opinion was highly regarded. But these days it's all about flavor and flavor and more flavor. A slurry of textures and scents that take the pure essense of the food and bury it under grastranomic slop. Anyone can add flavor. Pile it on. I daresay you do. But it's not good food. It's not... art."

Summer gaped at her before she realized: ah. Yes. A madpony. That explained everything.

"You're saying art can't be flavorful?" Summer asked in annoyance. "Do you like paintings only done in white? Music with only one instrument?" The anger... was confused. It normally just guttered under the surface like a wok with insuffient fuel. Till eventually it caught something and then flared!

The strange unicorn smiled and closed her eyes. "That would be fascinating. White on white on white. But what of the textures? The gloss? How could such a minimalist image express itself? Likewise, a lone note. A simple melody. Pure and unvarnished. What feelings could it share all on its own?" She opened her tired eyes and stared at her haughtily. "Do you know what art is?"

Summer was hardly expecting a conversation, let alone a debate. "Does anypony?" For some reason the pony seemed amused! "Do you?" Summer demanded, thrusting a hoof at her. The errant droplets hissed off the end.

And the thin mare let out a soft laugh. "Oh, I do. Every critic does and every other critic is wrong." Slowly she walked towards Summer. "Art is the expression of the soul. Of the truest self." She regarded Summer with a strange look. "Do you think you can create art for me?"

Summer felt like she was in a haze of bafflement now. "You want me to paint me a picture?"

"Cook art for me," the pony replied. "Don't worry if I like it. I won't. But I will tell you if it is art..." Then the pony turned back to the dark. "Or don't. Your rice is quite adequate for my palate. Simple. Pure. Uncontaminated."

Summer stared at her departing into the city gloom. Art? She was lucky if she could avoid burning the place down. Sure, this little ramen shack was a little more fireproof than her previous employers, with its stone walls. It had been part of a foundation once upon a time. But still. Art? Her?

The next night when the pale mare returned, she ordered her rice. Summer put a little bit of ginger on it. Some slivers of red pepper. She stared flatly at it, her horn picked off the toppings and flicked them to the side before she ate. "Tch." was her appraisal as she walked away.

Summer actually tried a bowl of egg fried rice with green onion, pepper oil, and bamboo shoots. Like her mom would make. She took one bite, shuddered like she'd be sick, and gestured for the plain rice. Once consumed, departed with another dismissive 'Tch'. Summer started to go to the Manehattan library to look up pony foods. Night after night she tried variants. Vinegar. Apple cider. Carrot shavings. Minced passionfruit! Cucumber carved into cute ponies! Every try gave her a sullen glare of disapproval. Some dishes were rejected outright. Some got one bite. Most got the 'tch'. Summer almost wanted the five paragraph essay with interpretive dance! At least then she knew what she did wrong. And the anger surged under her hide. She fill the sink and yell into it, filling the bathroom with steam as she walked the fine line between burning the place down and having somewhere to live! She tried dragon cuisine, which was apparently inedible to ponies! Griffon and hippogrpyh faire! She tried one slice of raw mackerel before curling her lip. A rice cupcake... which had gotten her an almost pitying dismissal. More than once, Summer had to stand steaming in the rain as she kept the flames inside! Don't get angry! Don't get angry! DON'T GET ANGRY!

"I quit," she informed the mare, putting her plain bowl of rice before her.

The mare didn't answer as she consumed the white grains, as if savoring each one.

"I can't cook art," she amended, looking for some kind of acknowledgement from the pale mare.

She didn't even get the 'tch' this time.

"Are you happy? You were right! I can't cook art!" she shouted at the mare.

"My dear, why in Equestria is my happiness coming into the equation?" she asked dryly as she contemplated a grain on the end of the chopstick.

"You're the critic! You're artist... or expert... or whatever you are!" Summer yelled at her. Don't get angry seemed far away and distant.

"I am," she said as she popped the grain into her mouth and chewed on a single grain, with her eyes closed. "This is good rice. From the Kiso valley. An early autumn harvest. It was cut and dried upside down, sunbaked, though it was cloudy on the third day." She then opened her eyes to gaze at Summer. "It doesn't attempt to be brown rice from Jodhpur, or Tianma garlic or a cupcake." She thrust a hook at the countertop. "You have all the ingredients of the world before you, save the one that is most essential!"

Summer wanted to scream as her mane flapped in the updraft of heat coming off her. "What! What am I missing! Just tell me!" Don't get angry...

"How can I!?" the mare snapped back. "I don't know what it is!"

"Then how can you say it's missing!?" Summer yelled back! Don't get angry ...

"Because it's not art!" the pony replied, looking equally frustrated. "Look at all this! Is this you?! Is any of this you!?"

"I can't be me!" Summer yelled at her in anguish, her mane bursting in fire as her hide turned black as pitch. Her teeth transformed into fangs as she grabbed the wok. "This is me! Happy?! I can't BE this!"

The pony stepped back, eyes wide in alarm for a moment before her gaze softened. "If you can't be who you are..." she said as she turned and started to walk away. "You can always be a critic."

Summer stared at her. The fire crackled along her body like an intimate caress. The anger out. She was out. And she looked at the blackened hooves that she was always trying to keep inside. "Wait!" she called after her. The mare did, looking back at her as Summer regarded the counter. She grabbed the rice and threw it into the wok, and then reached under for her saddlebags. The cloth burned away, but she tumbled the spices into it. It was going to taste all wrong, but she didn't care! She practically attacked the grains, stirring them with her metal spoon, gripping the wok and letting her sheer frustration with life pour heat into the meal! When it was done, she piled it into a bowl. Some of the grains were clearly scorched. It was absolutely overcooked. Imperfect.

Her.

The mare trotted up and levitated both the bowl and chopsticks. One mouthful disappeared into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed.

Doubled over coughing and gasping. "Oh, Sweet Celestia, that is the worst thing I've eaten in years!" she croaked as she slumped, grasping the counter with both hooves as she coughed. "I think I might die!" She said, opening her mouth, filling it with water, and swishing it before spitting. Summer just stared at her numbly, the fog wrapping round her as she felt herself start to go out.

But then the pale pony fixed her gaze and said with a small smile, "But it was art."

Summer stared as molten tears started to flow and the haze burned away from the heat of her heart. She slumped against the metal counter as she wept, the blue white fires spattering in the wok and burning the remains away. Levitating an oven mitt on to her hoof, the unicorn gave her head a gentle pat as the rain hissed on.

---

Anger wasn't your usual ramen shop. Stone walls. Metal furniture. Lots of fire insurance. But it was Summer's heart and soul and home. A place where she walked like a friendly campfire amid the tables, cooking food with the heat of her hooves. Rice. Ramen. Skewers. Long as it was burned, it was hers. Sure, dragons were her most popular clientele, but there were occasional ponies who liked to live dangerously. And she had to admit, a burning pony had a much easier time navigating the city streets. Of course the critics always panned her shop as spectacle and her food as for those who had no sense of taste at all... but who cared! This was her. Her purest self.

And when it got late and most of the clientele went home, she made sure she had a bowl of simple, plain rice waiting for the only critic that mattered.

'Tch'